


House Of Nettle

by hraundrac



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Because Moomin and food are two in one in my mind, Existential Horror, Family, Food, Graphic Animal Death, Internalized Homophobia, Joxter is a loving dad but Mumrikar have their customs, Magic, Multi, Recipe, Under Hiatus Until Further Notice, cosmic horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 02:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19880311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hraundrac/pseuds/hraundrac
Summary: "Don't you know how much time and energy it takes for a forest to spread its roots so far as to chase a person? You Mumrikar always cost so much, always running around the place. But in the end, the reward more than makes up for it."It's just the Mumriken way to leave one's child to fend for itself at a young age, but at times the consequences of a parent's decisions take years to come to light. Now Snufkin finds himself the inheritor of an unknown pact with a being beyond his understanding, and must re-examine all he's come to know about his upbringing.





	House Of Nettle

**Author's Note:**

> Not much happens just yet, it's mostly just backstory and exposition.
> 
> Hopefully the writing style doesn't feel too weird! Or the cooking! I just see Moomins and my brain goes oh fuck it's time to turn the stove on.
> 
> Also please bear with me through all the talk of nettle at the beginning, but I DID name the fic after it. I promise I'll tone it down as I go. I just think it's a fascinating plant with lots of folklore behind it (and it's delicious! If you have a taste for wild herbs. It's very close to spinach).
> 
> That said, I have a weakness for naming things after song lyrics, and since I actually picked a title out of my own mind, I'll be naming all my chapters after songs instead. This first one is from The Balancer's Eye by Lord Huron.

When Snufkin was found, he was alone in a basket, bundled up in ratty old clothes much too big for him and sheltered under a tattered green hat. He smelled heavily of tobacco, with loose powder in his fur. He did not scream or fuss, but regarded his surroundings with a curious eye.

When Snufkin was found, he could barely speak, naught but a bumbling kit, unaware of the world.

Hence, the creeps and creatures of the forest had named him Snusmumriken, The Mumrik that smelled of snus. It was the name of a shameful, dull old thing.

"Has it got no brain? A Mumrik, this one! Sure as day!" They must have thought. "It takes right after its kind!"

And he must indeed have been a Mumrik, despite the softened features of his Mymble blood, for all he came across seemed intent on it. He had never met one, but he had soon come to learn that Mumrikar were considered rude and disruptive and quite unpleasant to be around. They did not like rules and were very contrary, always doing as they wished. They adventured and rarely settled for long, for it was not in their nature, but all where they stepped they brought along disorder.

He found it odd that he did not like being rude, and took great joy in being helpful. Perhaps if he had been raised a proper Mumrik. However, the call for adventure and his dislike for order seemed to be in his blood, and the mark of his species was branded into every aspect of his introduction into the wilderness, from the clear sign of having been abandoned, to his state of squalor.

"How terribly it smells, of mildew and tobacco. Is this a child, or an old man?"

"Perhaps an old man cursed to be a child?"

"Or a child cursed to become an old bore."

They bathed him in the river and washed his hair with nettle water to ease dirt and tangles free. But they could not wash his heritage.

Later, he would start going by Snufkin, for it was simpler, and shorter, and did not require him to spend too long on introductions or acknowledge his species to those who did not need to know such things. Being called Mumriken with ill intent certainly stung, though it was what he was, and he did not truly mind the word for he had no other to describe himself. No, he only minded the things that hid behind it and came free in the mouths of those who regarded him with scorn. If he was to call himself a Mumrik, it would be to himself and to those that he judged able to respect it. And he would carry it closely to his heart, even in silence.

It was perhaps the very name that lead Snufkin to start smoking. That, or curiosity about the state he was found in. The trace of tobacco had been with him since the beginning, and so there lay the answer to who he was. But he did not think of it much more than that, or wonder about the caretaker whose smell he had been covered in.

Back then, little Snufkin had no pappa or mamma. He was born of a basket, and it suited him quite well. Anything more would have put his then frail existence into question. After all, it was the Mumrik way to fend for oneself.

Later, Moominpappa would tell his story and Snufkin would wonder, perhaps for the first time, about his father and mother, and find that he needed some quite dearly. He would grow very fond of them upon meeting them, particularly the Joxter. Snufkin was quite unlike his father, yet he would only focus on the similarities and insist that they were much the same, for he was a Mumrik who hated park keepers and held his freedom quite dearly.

He would learn in time that their species were not all that they were, and that the Joxter was very much his own unique character. Yet he would love his father still.

Snufkin knew not if his parents had ever given him a name, and did not feel the need to ask. The Joxter and The Mymble had happily and easily called him by the name he was introduced as, and no other. He was thankful for that. He had no use for an old name that had never truly been his. It would have been unnecessary baggage, and Snufkin carried only the essentials: supplies, music, and memories.

Memories of lessons, places, and people. People like his father.

He hadn't seen him in years. The Joxter had left the Mymble one winter, with nary a goodbye, and never returned. To the house, or to Moominvalley, or anywhere else Snufkin might had encountered him in the past. Even if he had returned to the Mymble, he would have found her, the kids, and the house long gone. Snufkin rolled the image around in his head sometimes and wondered if the Joxter would have felt like he himself had that one November, when he'd returned to find the Moomins missing. He wondered if the Joxter would have come to learn from it the same lesson about permanence, or if he would have simply turned heel on the ashes without a thought.

The Mymble herself had not been worried or upset about his absence in the slightest. In fact, she had seemed rather happy for him, sighing dreamily at the thought of her own adventure. They didn't need to ask to know she loved him deeply. She simply understood him very well, as she understood herself.

It was, in many ways, much like Snufkin and Moomin. But the Mymble had years of wisdom, and needed not learn to accept such things in the moment, as Moomin had. By the time they would strike, she was already prepared.

It wasn't the first time he had gone, but it was the longest he'd ever been away. Perhaps it would be the last, were he never to return.

When he would leave all those times, she would find other men to keep her company. And Snufkin would never visit when he knew one was present. He had no business with such strangers, and tended not to like them much.

When the Joxter would return, The Mymble would be only with him, which spoke of how much she favored him. As did her children, who would immediately lose interest in their temporary victims in favor of harassing the Joxter, who always took it in stride like an old thing much too tired to care.

The other men would usually not stay long, as it was. And they would be gone before the Joxter returned. But the man had recounted to his son once how he'd met a few who had still been around. The Mymble would have sent them off, but she had no need to as they had run with their tails between their legs at the first sight of the Mumrik. The Joxter swore he had not done anything, really. He had simply settled in his tree, comfortable as could be, and regarded them with sleepy disinterest.

Perhaps it was not the Joxter at all, perhaps it was the sudden change in energy in the house that would drive them off.

But Snufkin was more willing to bet that it was the eyes boring into them. His father had a talent for being unnerving without meaning to, and making people feel like he could read through all their defenses.

Those who had spent much time with him were used to it, but some more boastful, such as Moominpappa, would still grown a bit vulnerable under his watch. Even if a vulnerable Moominpappa meant a more theatrical and irritable Moominpappa, something the Joxter seemed to find very amusing.

Those same people who were used to his presence and antics were also used to his fickle nature, and thus weren't worried much either. The Joxter was a seasoned vagabond with a keen sense for danger. Despite his laziness, everyone knew he could not only survive, but thrive out there.

No, no one was surprised or worried, but they certainly did miss him, as one was wont to do when one loves. Just slightly, in silence, and each in their own way. And perhaps Snufkin most of all. Which was not much.

Despite his father's physical absence, the Joxter left him with a gift: an existence that Snufkin would grow into as naturally and stubbornly as a weed grows where the sun shines and the soil is rich. He found his way, like nettle finds its way to the humid underbrush of tall trees. And he survived and grew back from the scorches of life much like it.

  
  


─────── 𖥸 ───────

  
  
  


It was the first week of March, and Snufkin was on his way back to Moominvalley, down familiar paths and welcome sights. He wasn't far from the Lonely Mountains, maybe another half a day's walk when he had stopped by a little stream. Something had caught his eye.

There, under a broad tree, lay a patch of stinging nettle like a veritable green ocean. Snufkin crouched by the plants and examined them. The first sprout of the season, leaves young and tender, of a striking green. It must have been a very nice spot, for they looked very full of life.

"What an admirable thing it is to be a nettle," he thought. "To fear no danger and grow so freely, wholly secure in your defenses. Yet unfortunate that nettles cannot move. I could not bear to be one. Why if I were a plant I would tear my roots out of the soil and roll to new places as I like." He hummed to himself, imagining for a moment how it would feel to be so light as to be blown by the gentlest of winds. Far, far away, towards new lands. Suppose for a nettle, it would not be so stressful, but for anyone who crossed paths with one, it might just very well be. Snufkin chuckled to himself. "No, I suppose for a nettle this is much more suited, and quite a good life."

He gazed at the expanse of green, and made a decision then, for he had not eaten yet for the day and this was a very bountiful gift that nature had brought his way. He slipped his pack off his shoulders and settled down into the dirt. From it he retrieved a pot, which he placed at his side, and his trusty knife.

"I'm afraid you've gotten rather cocky, however," he spoke to the nettle. "And I cannot let you take over this spot. Other plants need it too, you know?"

He was not afraid of the sting, as he had his leather gloves on, and had picked nettle enough times to know how to grasp it with a firm hold. He took to cutting off the leaves from the stems, as it would make his work much easier than having to sort through the batch to separate them afterwards. He muttered to himself as he went, picking with care and placing the leaves into the pot. "All things in good balance." Yes, indulging oneself too much could become dreadful for the soul. But so was denying oneself. Things such as good food were meant to bring joy.

He wondered about Moominmamma. Perhaps he could bring her some nettle in a cheesecloth. He knew the Moomintrollet did not eat nettle as a meal, but she would surely have a use for it in medicine.

How it could be considered a healing plant but not a nourishing one, he knew not. Perhaps it was its sting that made it seem suitable for painful things such as death and illness, and thus unnecessary when one was fine. Snufkin had to disagree, nettle was quite a useful plant no matter your health.

It wasn't that he didn't believe in superstitions. Snufkin was as superstitious as the average creature. But to him, like tarot cards, all things had a reverse and a context to be applied to. Whether those things remained good or bad, or whether they changed their nature, they still had more to them than met the eye. A danger could have its upsides; safety could have its downsides. A nettle could be a pesky, painful weed, or good food for those familiar and careful.

Perhaps he might tell her about some of the foods he'd come across on his travels and it might convince her. She could borrow some milk from The Fillyjonk's cow and smoke soft cheese over nettle and hay. She would not be eating the nettle itself then, but get great use out of it in making something delicious.

Yes, Snufkin decided. He might just do that. So he took out some spare cheesecloth and split his batch in half.

Once deemed full enough, he took the pot by the stream and dipped it in the cold water to rinse out in the leaves, using his fingers like a siv to keep them in. A few slipped out despite that and he watched the flecks of green flow downstream peacefully.

He filled the pot with clean water and brought it to a grassy area along the bank, where he deemed it suitable to set up camp. He absentmindedly brought his other belongs and tied the cheesecloth into a nice bundle, then went about picking sticks and rocks for the campfire. He dug a fire pit, and once everything was placed, he lit it with an experienced flick of a match and waited for the flames to grow.

Onto the fire went the pot, held above by the surrounding rocks, so that the stinging hairs might be cooked off, and Snufkin settled down to wait. It wouldn't be long, but he felt like he had to do something with his hands.

He pulled out his trusty tarot cards. They were well cared for, kept in a nice blue velvet pouch that Snufkin could never let himself hold for too long. The feel of it reminded him far too much of Moomin's fur, and it was quite bothersome. Not to mention that it tended to affect his readings. There was a reason the corners on his Four of Wands card were more worn than the rest, for that was the card he took to symbolise Moominvalley.

But he had that pouch long before he'd even met Moomin. It had come with the cards, when he'd bought them at a market one year on his travels. They were hand-drawn, beautifully so, and he had liked the artistry very much. He couldn't remember what he'd traded for them, only that it had seemed hardly enough.

Snufkin pulled out the cards and their spreadcloth, and unfolded the thin blue fabric over the grass. He fanned cards out onto it and shuffled them. He thought he would do a standard reading, for he had nothing particular on his mind. Three cards: past, present, and future, placed down in order.

He didn't have to flip the present card to know just which one it was, but he remained patient. The past card went first.

He was instantly met with the Three of Swords, upright. A skilled painting of an impaled heart. A grief still being nursed, the negative impact of someone's actions. How odd. Snufkin did not like to carry grief, and could not remember anything painful from his youth. But such was the case for tarot readings that one could not fully understand them until they saw the full picture. It could very well had meant something entirely different.

He moved on to the present card, carefully holding the frayed edge so as not to cause it more damage. The familiar depiction of reunion, of homecoming, stared reversed up at him, the hanging garland of flowers looking more like a bridge. Snufkin frowned. It wasn't often that he got The Four of Wands reversed, and it had usually proven a sign of some difficulty upon his arrival in Moominvalley. He wondered if Moomin might have gotten cross with him during his absence. He didn't know what he could have done to upset his friend but surely it could be fixed, and would not last too long. Their arguments rarely ever did, and they always came out of it with a better understanding of each other.

His fingers touched the future card and he instantly felt queasy, which was uncharacteristic of him during readings. But he steeled himself and turned the card over.

He never set it back down. It remained firmly in his paw as Snufkin gazed blankly at the crumbling form of the Tower. He knew very well what it meant. Whatever was waiting for him in Moominvalley would not be a mere quarrel. No, whatever it was would much more serious. Something dangerous.

His eyes slid back to the other two cards, and it seemed to fall into place.

Whatever would impact his return was something grave that had been with him for long. A torment from his childhood that was to resurface with drastic consequences.

He pushed his cards back into a pile, wrapped the cloth around them hastily and put them back into the bag.

What nonsense. Was he supposed to avoid Moominvalley now, for fear that disaster might strike?

It was meaningless, pure interpretation on his part. It meant nothing at all.

In truth, he did not like going against his cards, for they had never truly been wrong. They were always eerily accurate, and at times he would make a second reading just to be sure. Often it would result in the exact same cards, or ones that would shine more insight on the first reading.

But he very much did not feel like doing that now. He didn't want to think about it. Moments like these came, at times, when he didn't want to trust his cards. The fates were rotten creatures, after all.

What to do? Surely, it would not be wise to let his guard down, but he couldn't simply take all of this at face value and turn tail. He had to remind himself that a disaster did not mean an end. He didn't know what awaited him and what it would mean in his life. But he trusted he could pull through.

"Should my pot bubble over, I shall not return," he finally decided. Of course he knew this to be a silly thing, for a pot well watched by a practiced hand would never do so. In reality, he had very much already made up his mind, for cards cared little about anyone but the subject of the reading, and would not account for Moomin's sorrow.

He took the pot off the fire when he deemed the nettles safe, without a drop spilled, and retrieved the rest of the supplies and ingredients that he would need:

  * One of the wooden cooking spoons he had carved last summer, slightly burnt from use, and with intricate details on the handle;



  * An onion and a head of garlic, from the market in the next town over. Both saved for his meal of that day;



  * A glass bottle of olive oil with colourful braided rope around the neck;



  * A small, light cutting board, little more than a well sanded plank of wood, with bark still on the edges;



  * Two pouches, of salt and pepper respectively, and a smooth stone which he used as a pestle;



  * A small cotton bag of flour;



  * Two wooden bowls for preparation.



He placed the board onto his knees and took off his gloves, for he didn't need them anymore, and his next job would be messy.

His claws sank into the onion as he placed it on the board and held it so that he might cut it in two and remove the stem. He peeled it, and disposed of the unwanted parts a ways away. Then he went to deftly chopping the onion, avoiding the root end.

He did the same with the garlic, crushing a few cloves under his knife first. Once done, he set the board aside.

Scooping the leaves out of the pot and into one bowl, he poured the nettle water into the other. It could not fit all of it, so what was left he simply gave to the plants at his feet, for he hadn't the time to use it for anything else.

He threw the onion into the now empty pot with a dash of oil, and placed it back over the fire. Cutting board now freed of some space he upturned the bowl of nettle and chopped that as well, simultaneously keeping an eye on his pot and mixing it intermittently so that it would not burn.

Once the onion became translucent, he added the garlic and another good splash of oil, and scraped the nettle back in. It would have to cook for only a few more minutes, five perhaps, with him stirring constantly. But he was not yet done.

In the bowl that had held the nettle, he shook out a few spoonfuls worth of flour with one hand, and a little of the nettle water to create a runny mixture. Then he poured it into the pot and kept mixing. At intervals, he would add little by little of the nettle water, trying to get it to a creamy consistency.

It was dull work now, and Snufkin forced himself not to think of disaster. It would do him no good to get worked up over unknowns. So instead he thought of a warm kitchen, with patterned tiles and a red kettle bubbling on the crusted stove. A cup of tea might do him some good. Perhaps he wouldn't run off with Moomin right away, and instead stay for breakfast. They could have the rest of spring all to themselves if they wanted it. Everyone had quickly learned that when Snufkin and Moomin needed time to reconnect, alone, no one could pull them apart.

But some springs they did not need each other as much as others. Snufkin could never really know how Moomin was doing until he was there, so he had to remind himself that it wasn't his decision alone. Should Moomin need him, it was Snufkin's duty to give him that much. So was their agreement, the price of their commitment. Moomin traded part of himself for Snufkin's freedom, and Snufkin had to trade part of himself for Moomin in turn. Were they to step over the other's toes, they knew to pull back. But at the root they existed in a comfortable balance, fine tuned over years of being friends.

So much were they devoted to each other that Snufkin had to wonder if it hadn't become something bigger than it should be. They did not speak of it, for it surely prove a true rabbit hole, but they were both clearly aware of how much water they were in.

He could feel it when Moomin stared at him for too long. He could feel it in the sweat between their locked paws. He could hear it in the silence that they liked to bask in, and see it in the flowers and bees, the trees and the sky, the rush of the river and the crash of the ocean.

The was a tenderness there, too close to the surface, and it made everything aglow.

When his food was ready, Snufkin took it off the fire and added the salt, and the pepper kernels which he crushed onto his board. Then he stood up to rinsed his bowls in the stream.

Once back, he eagerly scooped the food into one of them. It was still too hot to eat, so Snufkin blew into it waiting for it to cool just enough, and let the aroma fill his lungs like a warm embrace.

How long the winter had been. There was a weariness in his legs that nearly rivaled the one in his chest. He used to be better at keeping these feelings off his mind, but as the years passed he had started allowing himself to think of them as his travels came to an end and he felt ready to return to Moominvalley. He was on his way back anyway, so it was no matter. And after all, it only made the reunion that much sweeter.

He thought Moomin might have felt the same. Oh, it was so easy to get wrapped up in admiration. The moment one let their guard down it would creep up under their skin. Snufkin wondered if that was the danger awaiting him, a bond too strong, a heart too big. A love unspoken and very perilous.

He wasn't sure he liked the thought of that. More for Moomin than for himself.

What a mess...


End file.
